Should
I know you from somewhere?
Your
eye brows raised in thick liquorice black.
You
and your hairline gone bald as plaster.
Or
your puffed face, was that the cherub I knew?
all-round
solid, middle-aged spread, that’s you.
But
do I detect a grin? What’s comical?
If
I’m right, you never were the private man
enjoying
lingering here among market souls.
Being
statuesque has made you look so calm,
that
dickey bow, tight waistcoat, long green apron,
the
red towel hung rigid over your arm,
ever
your big hands grip on that shiny plate;
And
to think you used to like a flutter
from
equine tips to extras of your trade.
Nameless,
ghost-looker in perpetual gaze.
The
same man? Could it be? I don’t know – what hope?
My
pockets jingle with loose change, and yes,
I’d
like to put something on your plate but don’t.
G.
F. Phillips
